


Lacking Each Nuance

by thetreesgrowodd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bi-Curiosity, Drama, Humor, M/M, Secret Relationship, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetreesgrowodd/pseuds/thetreesgrowodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds someone to help him with a personal experiment. Surely, if he's careful, Sherlock won't find out.</p><p>Also: kiwi fruit, a stolen antique agate-inlay dagger, peach-scented candles, the reinvention of the hug, an experiment involving blue balls, and Sherlock pondering whether the eyes really are the windows of the soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peach

John looked up at the windows of 221B Baker Street. They were dark. _Excellent._

The smell hit him as soon as he opened the front door, a fruity, sweet, artificial kind of smell. Some new cleaning product of Mrs. Hudson's, perhaps? But it only got stronger as he went up the stairs to the flat. He entered the sitting room, shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his shoes, before flipping on the light. And he started so hard he nearly staggered back out into the hall.

Sherlock was home. He was sitting there, in the dark.

_Oh Jesus, does he know everything? Is he waiting to confront me?_

Sherlock was curled up in a chair, his shirt partially unbuttoned over pajama bottoms with the drawstring untied at the waist, as if he'd been distracted halfway through changing his day clothes for his night clothes. He was surrounded by the standard hodgepodge — Moleskine notebook, violin, tissues, an apparently forgotten cup of tea, a plaster casting of something or another, matches, and a half-eaten banana which was laying across the page of an open book. He was staring at several fat lit candles.

"What are you doing?!" John asked. "Wh-what happened with the convenience store case?"

"Oh so wearisome. The Egyptian artifacts were in the bags of sliced bread — just like I'd said — just like _anyone_ would have known had they been paying any attention. Although the look on his face when I told him I needed to purchase sufficient bread to make six dozen sandwiches for a mummy-unwrapping party was _almost_ worth the trouble of going down there." He smirked.

"As for what I'm doing now, I'm obviously studying the scents from various brands of scented candles. When they're strongest, how long the scents linger after extinguishing. Would you come here and give them a sniff with me?" Sherlock asked. "One's nose does get a bit immune to the scents after such a long time."

No, John would not go over to within sniffing distance of the candles — that would put him within sniffing distance of Sherlock, who would be certain to smell Rudy on him, Fresh Country Peach or no.

"Not now, I've got to get to bed," John said as naturally as possible. He had to get out of the room and away from Sherlock's attention. "And if that smell has carried all the way up there, you'd better hope my nose really does get immune to it."

Sherlock looked up at him at last. It was bad enough that on an average day Sherlock would greet John with, " _Your left ear is itchy_ ," or, " _You were afraid of goats as a boy_ ," or the immortal, " _You dreamt of cheese again_." There was no such thing as privacy with Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate, not really, _but this one time, please just this one time_...

"You'd have gone directly up to your bedroom if you wanted to go to bed — therefore you came in here for a reason," Sherlock said.

_John, you idiot_. He'd been thinking of grabbing something to eat, maybe sitting down to unwind for a moment. Alone. "I was... finding where that smell was coming from. Just making sure there wasn't something... _strange_ going on here? Such as... I don't know, something bizarre."

"Indeed."

"Goodnight then, Sherlock," John said, walking towards the stairs as casually as possible.

"Goodnight," Sherlock said, with a suspicious tone.

When he got to his room, John shut the door and leaned against it, letting out a breath. And waited for the inevitable —

"John! Alert me immediately if you detect any change in the scent!"

John had always fastidiously pretended that he couldn't hear Sherlock through the door, in an attempt to break him of the habit. For all the good it had done.

"Also when you notice it dissipate!" Sherlock shouted.

John froze for a moment, as if any footstep or slight creaking of the floorboards would remind Sherlock of his presence.

When John had gone out earlier, he'd expected Sherlock to be away until quite late. Their information had stated that the artifact buyers weren't likely to show up until 3 am, the shop's slowest time. Knowing that, and as Sherlock would have police officers to watch his back for once, John had decided that it was the perfect time to finally go and do what he'd been planning — obsessing over — _daring himself to do_ — for weeks now.

John had certainly needed to avoid seeing Sherlock tonight. Oh, there had been times he'd come home after shagging one of his girlfriends, to various reactions from Sherlock, ranging from the non-verbal attitude that said, _Yes John, of course I know what you did, but I'm too caught up in my own interests to care_ , to bald, brash recounts of every detail (usually when Sherlock was at his most bored and irritated). John had learned to anticipate it. But he couldn't let Sherlock deduce what he'd been doing this evening. It had been _different_...

_"I haven't done this in years," John said, nervously swinging his arms. "I mean —" he scrunched up his face — "getting, you know, going about it like this..."_

_John hadn't been very worried about being recognized. It was Sherlock, with his distinctive appearance, who got stopped on the street occasionally, or the pair of them together, but never John alone. He looked too much the average man for that, he supposed. But even if he were recognized, even if this got out and caused a scandal, Sherlock wouldn't care. Not unless it cost him clients —_ interesting clients _— or otherwise hindered his job. But how would John face him?_

_"Tell me what you're looking for."_

_"Yes. A man." John said, scratching his head. "I'd like a man." His face went hot and his fingers and toes went numb. There. He'd said it, and from now he could only go forward. "I'm not... terribly experienced with men. Women, yes. Never thought I'd want a man but just, you know. I need to just try it... sort of work something out."_

_"You have a type you want?"_

_"Tall, thin, light-skinned. Dark hair. Thick." John let out a breathy laugh. "The hair, not him. Kind of reserved. I don't mean dominating or cold exactly, just serious. Guarded, but... warmer underneath. Oh, I sound stupid don't I? Don't worry about all of that, if it's a problem."_

_"No worries. Just wait a tick, have a drink, and I'll get one of my boys over here."_

__Boy _. John's heart sank. He didn't want any_ boy _, but it was too late now, wasn't it? Some young thing who looked like he'd just turned off a Playstation game to have sex? That wasn't the image he wanted at all._

_Maybe he should have just stayed home, and had another night with his fantasy. The horrible, wonderful, achingly bittersweet fantasy that he could never keep out of his mind for long, because the slightest thing always brought it back to him._

_But if he wanted to understand it —_ really understand it _— then he had to see this through._


	2. Blue Balls

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner," John said, coming down the stairs. The two ladies were chatting in the entry hall.

"Good morning, Doctor. Mrs. Turner has just popped over for a bit. Are you heading out then?"

"Yes, got a busy day, I'm afraid."

"Without Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Oh. Yes. He seems to have gone out." John was about say that Sherlock was better off going out than spending another day in the flat yelling at his microscope and test tubes (which was a dubious claim, knowing the kind of trouble Sherlock could get into, going out by himself), when he was interrupted.

As if he were a fairy tale demon summoned by his name, Sherlock flung the front door open and strode in. When he saw John, his face brightened.

"John! Excellent. How long does blue balls last on average?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" John asked, although the ladies' stunned silence seemed to confirm that he had heard what he thought he had heard.

"Blue balls. How long does it last, if it's not," Sherlock made a hand gesture, " _relieved?"_

The ladies exploded in embarrassed laughter. John flushed — how could he ever, _ever_ convince people that they were not a couple when Sherlock kept doing things like this? He grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him up the stairs.

"John — when one person hauls another up a flight of stairs by his elbow, the probability of both of them falling and breaking their—"

" _Good!"_ John said. He shoved Sherlock into their flat and shut the door behind them. "Now, what did you just ask me in front of Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner?"

Sherlock sighed, as if John were impossibly thick. "Blue balls. _Epididymal hypertension._ The sensation of soreness or discomfort of the testicles resulting from extended sexual arousal without ejac—"

"I know what it is!"

"Good! How long, on average, does it last!?" Sherlock asked, impatiently.

John rubbed his face. "Jesus, it's like having a younger brother starting puberty..."

Sherlock shook a folder of papers at John. "The _entire timeline_ depends on it! If he was lying about the duration of his blue balls, then his whole story falls apart!" Sherlock flipped through the papers. "Now, I've been able to find consistent data to back up his claims regarding the length of his fellatio session — and that checks out. But I must determine the average duration of blue balls," Sherlock said. And looked expectantly at John.

John stared back. _Months and months and months..._

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat. "Well, if you don't know, we can determine it easily enough, although it may take some time." He opened the stopwatch app on his phone. "Tell me when you're ready."

"No. Just no. No," John said, squinching his face up, raising one hand as if to block out a blinding light. "No. Thank you, no."

"No?" Sherlock repeated, as if John had just declined a brightly wrapped box with a bow on the top, and perhaps had entirely missed the fact that there was indeed a birthday present inside.

"Yes, _no!_ Absolutely not! I'm going out." John turned toward the door.

"But the experiment! The timeline. John! It's for a case! _For justice!"_

"Then you conduct your experiment by yourself. Maybe you hadn't noticed, but you have all the necessary equipment yourself," John said, and left the house quickly before Sherlock could call him back.

After walking a few blocks, all the while unconsciously opening and clenching his fists, John's thoughts sorted themselves out enough for him to make sense of one point — in a backwards kind of way, it had been funny. It had been _hilarious._ And it was a good thing too, because otherwise the whole situation would have been painful.

*

"That's nice. What is that — peach?" Rudy asked, helping John take off his jacket after he had arrived at Rudy's flat.

"Um... yes and no," John said. "Just ignore it."

"How about I enjoy it?"

"If you can manage it," John said with a grin.

Rudy was about a decade younger than Sherlock. His dark hair was more unruly than curly. He had that unfortunate tattoo of the logo of a popular brand of shoes on his right shoulder blade. He was more conventionally handsome than Sherlock — in a generic, aftershave advert kind of way — and his voice was higher. But generally speaking, he was passable match, and there was a similarity about the way he stood and carried himself and turned his head.

Although he had enjoyed it, John had been too nervous and distracted and uncertain during their first encounter to really focus on the illusion of being with Sherlock, but he had caught it in a few startling flashes and they had thrilled him. That fact, in addition to Rudy's charisma and ability to put John at his ease, was part of what had made him so eager for this second attempt.

It had been a confusing few days for John, after his first evening with Rudy. His mind had been whirring non stop, _I can't deny it now. Not after what happened. When I was just noticing Sherlock, just fantasizing, but had never done anything with a man, I could consider it some kind of fluke, some side-effect of his gargantuan personality, call myself straight. I'd spent my whole life knowing I was straight. I'm not anymore. What does that mean about me?_

He'd gone through the motions of normal life — working at the clinic, threading his way between stacks of Sherlock's books and debris to get around the flat, taking showers and sleeping and dressing, typing up part of a case, reading the paper — with the utmost precision and care, as if doing things in a perfect and ordered way could balance out the chaos in his mind.

And now here he was again, with Rudy. He'd come back for another try, because the first hadn't made his feelings any clearer.

 _John sat on the sofa next to Sherlock and kissed him and_ (Rudy was a relaxed but assertive kisser) _Sherlock started out just sitting there like a plank but_ (Rudy's hands were seeking out John's tense muscles and working them) _as John stroked his cheek and wrapped a lock of Sherlock's hair around his finger_ (Rudy slid his hand under John's knee and hitched it up and over one of his) _Sherlock made an aborted grunt of desire_ (no, John had made that sound) _and was overwhelmed by his vulnerable, boyish, startled need for John..._

Rudy looked at John with smoldering eyes _(the illusion wavered — John couldn't quite put that look on Sherlock's face)._ Rudy's hands were firm yet tender. He smiled. He caressed John _(John closed his eyes, willing Sherlock to stay)._ Rudy seemed to interpret and respond to John's most subtle expression and body language. He was giving and selfless. He focused on John, but also stated directly what he himself liked and gave ample appreciation for what John did for him. _(This wasn't Sherlock.)_ John gave himself to the moment, although the illusion was gone

*

John showered before leaving Rudy's flat. When he got home, he bypassed the sitting room altogether and went straight up to his bedroom, where he changed his clothes (which he occasionally did after working at the clinic — which he had done earlier in the day — so Sherlock couldn't possibly read anything into it) and scrutinized his appearance in the mirror before going down to the flat.

Sherlock was sitting huddled in front of the telly, but was apparently ignoring it in favor of the folder of papers he'd waved in John's face that morning. Unsure of what to say after their last odd conversation, John started making dinner on the approximately one square foot of uncluttered workspace he could find. He had a dish he made where he chopped up whatever he could find and threw it all in a pot. It usually came out edible and made John feel accomplished and domestic, although Mrs. Hudson called it 'Bachelor's Stew' and tended to cluck, "Oh, _bless,"_ when she saw him making it.

When it was boiling away, John poked his head into the sitting room. "Do you want some dinner, Sherlock?"

"No. I'm working."

"Right." John started to turn back to the kitchen, but stopped when a thought occurred to him. "Wait, when _did_ you get that new case?"

"Last night. You were out."

"You could have texted me." John shook his spoon at Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't reply. Instead he shifted position slightly in his chair and winced. He drew up his knees gingerly but kept them well apart, as if he might discover a more comfortable position. John realized what it meant. _Oh, heaven help me._ "You're... doing the experiment then...?"

"Obviously."

 _That meant that Sherlock was... that Sherlock had... No_. John forced it out of his mind. _Compartmentalize_. "I almost hate to ask what kind of case this is," he said lightly.

"The most sordid. The wife had lovers, the husband had lovers, the lovers had lovers, even the dog has a lover..."

"The dog?"

"Oh, I saw the puppies and the bitch in the neighbor's garden. He may think he's kept it a secret from everyone, but not from me."

"Right. And what's all that got to do with the, uh," John waved his hand vaguely at Sherlock, "condition."

"A few of the lovers turned up murdered on the same night. The husband sketched up a timeline of his activities and movements for the day, all of which seemed to involve trying to find someone willing to sexually gratify him, along with the privacy and time to do so. But he had a most extraordinary day and the three did not coincide for quite some time."

"Why didn't he just, you know, take care of it himself?" John rubbed his nose, smiling a little in spite of himself.

"He had quite a severe accident a few weeks ago. Both of his arms are completely immobilized in casts."

"Oh — oh dear. He couldn't even...?"

"No. And he is currently confined to a wheelchair due to his injuries. He was unable even to stand and lean against some obliging piece of furniture for the scant bit of friction it would take to find relief." Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, as if assessing his own options in the furniture department. _No, no. Compartmentalize_. "He had to put up with this _deplorable condition_ for most of the day — if his story, and his timeline, are true."

"If... if he's so injured he couldn't even wank off, how could he have killed anyone?" John asked.

"He has quite strong and dextrous feet. I have no doubt he could have pulled the trigger with his toes. I determined that I could test this fact by simply locking him in a room, setting it on fire, and giving him the options of burning to death or operating a fire extinguisher with his feet," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock! You _didn't!"_

Sherlock smirked. "You're right. I didn't. But I thought about it. Still, I believe he could have used a gun with his feet. He however, did not have the flexibility required to use his feet to relieve his — discomfort. He told me that much."

Sherlock looked at John. He pressed his lips together, hard, but the edges of his mouth turned up.

They both burst out laughing, John's laughter exploding from him in a burst, Sherlock's nearly silent, although he shook with it for several moments.

"Ow, ow," Sherlock said. His eyebrows knitted. He looked at the still-running stopwatch on his phone and groaned.

"And you expected me to volunteer for that?" John asked, still grinning. "Come on, if you can laugh like that, you're not nearly as miserable as you claim to be. Have some dinner. It's ready."

"No," Sherlock said.

But John ladled some out into a bowl and held it out to him anyway.

"Yes," Sherlock said. He leaned forward to reach for it, but winced and sat back. "If you will hand it to me."


	3. Windows of the Soul

John showed up at Rudy's flat with take-out, a bottle of wine, and a carton of ice cream (because he'd thought long and hard about appropriate desserts and concluded that theirs was an ice cream kind of relationship. No, hang on, it wasn't a _relationship_ , it was something far more casual than a relationship — they'd agreed on that, and that was what they both wanted). It made John feel especially thoughtful and organized, and, he hoped, made up for the strange, selfish request he had for Rudy after their nice dinner.

"This is going to sound funny." John chuckled and scratched his ear. "But do you have a big coat that you could wear for a little while?"

"You want me to wear a coat?" Rudy asked, raising an eyebrow.

John mustered up a sheepish look. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Well, people have asked me for far stranger things." Rudy slipped out of the room and returned a moment later wearing it.

John felt his face light up — _no, no, play it cool! You're a grown-up! Not a five year old being offered a sweet!_ — It was a long, dark coat. The type of fabric was different from Sherlock's — lighter and smoother — but the shape and color were about right.

Rudy struck a runway pose. "Well? How is it?"

John went to stand in front of Rudy, appraisingly, so close their fronts were nearly touching. He flipped the collar up. "There. Perfect."

Rudy sneak-attack kissed him, taking advantage of how close he was. An impulsive, playful gesture.  
The kind of thing the Sherlock of John's fantasies did. The kind of thing he wished the real Sherlock were capable of.

*

"No, not there," Sherlock whispered.

John froze in the act of pulling an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair out to sit in.

"We're supposed to be strangers. You can't sit opposite me! Strangers never sit that close together! Move down." Sherlock plunked himself down in his own chosen chair at the table.

"We might be at this for hours, Sherlock. What if I need to talk to you?" John asked, but moved down one more seat anyway. "Besides, what if I'm just some nutter who likes to get into strangers' personal space? It does happen sometimes."

Sherlock shook his head. His hand made a flitty, bird-like gesture. "No, no, no. You don't have the right fingernails to be one of _those_ nutters. A glance at you and anyone would know you weren't that nutter who sits too close to strangers."

"'Anyone would know...?'"

"Well _I_ would know."

John shook his head and picked up a book to pretend to read.

They were a day and a half into their newest case, and with any luck, they'd have it wrapped up soon. To all appearances they were supposed to be two strangers, engrossed in their reading, sitting diagonally from each other at a table in the public library. In reality they were secretly waiting for Professor Carl D. Carson. If he came into the library that day, as Sherlock said he would, they would know he was guilty. However, it could take hours.

It _did_ take hours.

John had a guilty love of ambushing criminals and even more so if they were likely to be dangerous once confronted. But even so, his attention was wandering. To Sherlock. To John's feelings for him. He wouldn't — couldn't — give up on this partnership, this friendship, this bizarre kindredness they shared. But he couldn't seem to give up on his other feelings for Sherlock, from the overtly sexual — _I could haul him out of that chair — kick it out from under him if I had to — push him down on this table right now — yank his shirt up and let everyone watch as I see how deep I can get my tongue into his navel_ — to the sappy and romantic — _a new scarf, something luxurious and soft, like cashmere, something to bring out the sea-green of his eyes. He'd always think about me when he wears it. I'd hide it behind my back, then wrap it around his neck while I'm kissing him, so he'd feel it before he saw it, and —_

John suddenly realized Sherlock was staring at him.

"What?" John whispered, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to make sure he wasn't drooling. Everything he'd been doing, everything dirty fantasy flashed through his mind under Sherlock's piercing stare. Rudy's coat against his bare skin, John faking a nap on the sofa because Sherlock had left his pillow there and it smelled like him, the images that popped into John's head when Sherlock had taken a shower yesterday (because Sherlock _would_ let out little hums of pleasure at the hot water on cold mornings).

"I've been wondering something," Sherlock asked, uncharacteristically slowly. His eyes were still locked on John's. "Are the eyes really the windows of the soul?"

"What?"

"Don't say 'what' when you've heard me perfectly well. It's a terrible habit of the dull-witted and it's unworthy of you. If you need a moment to think about what I said, then take a moment, but don't make me repeat myself."

John sighed. His mind automatically translated Sherlock's words, found the hidden compliment, and forgave the rude parts. It was the only way to tolerate the man. "'Are the eyes really the windows of the soul?'" he repeated.

Sherlock tilted the book he was reading so John could see the cover more clearly. Poetry. Ah. He looked back at Sherlock's face to find — _God, that look in his eyes, the depth of what went on behind them._ John's eyes began to sting immediately and he looked away.

"Yes, it's a lovely sentiment, and one that I'm sure no intelligent person would ever seriously consider. Now stop staring at me like that if you want anyone to believe for a second that we're strangers," John said, lightly.

Sherlock didn't stop. "On the contrary. I'm considering studying it. I have a theory that it's because the eyes are so closely wired to the brain. They are, in some way, the most direct expression of the brain. More so than the other facial features — for example, the mouth which has more range of movement with which to convey expression than the eyes, but is not considered equally attractive."

John tried not to think about Sherlock's mouth. Or his eyes. Or his anything. He looked at his book and pretended to be interested in it. "Just tell me you won't have another jar of eyeballs sitting around the kitchen. It's keeping my weight down, thinking about what I might find if I go downstairs for a late night snack."

"It may be said then, that the reason humans find eyes beautiful, and staring into the eyes of someone they love so gratifying, is due to a love of the mind itself — the intellect, the personality. You're not reading that, John."

John put his book down with a snap. "No, I'm not. I can't concentrate with you staring at me."

"I told you to sit further away."

"I don't want to be your test subject, Sherlock."

"But you _are_ , you always are. How could you _not_ be — yours being the only face I see consistently?"

John translated again, startled at the link Sherlock seemed to be suggesting between love and John. Then — because this was Sherlock, after all — he brushed it off. This was just another example of Sherlock over-thinking things and failing to grasp basic human emotions. His mind was wired from the case but bored from the hours of sitting here waiting. He was itching for puzzles to solve. Throw in Sherlock reading poetry and John being the most convenient outlet for his thoughts, and something like this was the most likely result. And meaningless.

John didn't look up, but sensed Sherlock continuing to watching him. _One glimpse of my eyes right now and you'll know how much this hurts. Because I want you. But you've put yourself off-limits by your every personality trait, your body language, every opinion you've ever voiced to me on the topic of love or relationships._

John sighed through his nose and went on pretending to read. Sherlock went on staring.

It was nearly intolerable — but then Professor Carl B. Carson unwisely walked in. He selected the exact book on antique weaponry that Sherlock had known he would. A scrap of paper slipped out of it and landed face up on his foot. A photocopy of the forged suicide note. Carson froze when he saw it. Sherlock smirked. John set his book down and zipped up his jacket.

And then they were pounding after him as he ducked outside and through the parking lot, weaving around cars, then into an alleyway. John and Sherlock wordlessly split up and flanked him with perfect synchronization, cutting off his escape route. Cornered, Carson stared from one to the other of them, breathing hard, then pulled something out of his pocket — the stolen agate-inlay dagger!

"Careful, John."

"I see it." John already had his gun trained on Carson.

"A pretty little thing, isn't it, Professor Carson," Sherlock said. "Being both the murder weapon... and the motive for committing the murder."

The ornamental (but still sharp enough to get the job done) dagger danced in the light as Carson advanced toward Sherlock. John felt like steel, knew with absolute certainty that he knew exactly how far he could let this go and no further.

Then Lestrade's men rushed in out of nowhere and John got the gun out of sight. Carson was on the ground, and John and Sherlock were catching their breath at the edge of the chaos.

"Well Lestrade! Excellent timing!" Sherlock said. "Treat that dagger carefully! My client is eager to have it back safe and sound, once you're done with it."

"From what I saw, you're lucky we're not wiping your blood off of it," Lestrade said.

"Nonsense, I was never in any danger. How could I have been, with John here?" Sherlock said, still breathless and smiling from the chase, finding John's eyes.

_The windows of the soul indeed._


	4. Kiwi Fruit

"Coming out was the hardest thing I ever did in my whole life," Rudy said.

John smiled slightly over someone so young talking about his 'whole life' as if it had been such a long time. But he wasn't being dismissive — there was genuine emotion in Rudy's words.

"Are you having trouble with it?" Rudy asked, taking John's hand between his. "Coming out?"

"Oh," John said, caught off guard by the question. He hadn't yet thought about coming out, not even as a possibility in the future. "I don't know. It's not really about that for me. It's just complicated — it's too complicated."

"You're here with me, instead of with someone of your own, so it must be."

John sighed. "Yeah. And that someone — he's the biggest complication."

"Sean?"

John froze. _"Sean?"_

"Is it Sean? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. It's just — you've almost said a name a few times."

"Have I?"

"It sounded like you were going to say 'Sean,' or 'Seamus' or something."

John let out a breath. He hadn't been aware that he'd said anything of the sort, but he was very glad he apparently hadn't got further than the first sound. It had been so careless of him. What a mess it could make if he blurted out that distinctive name. One Google search would be all it would take for Rudy to put an identity to the man John was fantasizing about. Not that Rudy would do anything with the information — John had grown to trust him — but if anyone else knew, they could seriously mess up John's life with the scandal.

Rudy chafed John's hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"No, not at all," John said, and made himself smile. "I should be the one apologizing to you for saying someone else's name when I'm with you. It's just — you look a bit like him — like _Sean."_

"Good looking, is he?" Rudy grinned cheekily. "So. Why aren't you with him?"

"Oh, I don't know. No scratch that. Actually, yes I do." John gestured vaguely. "I know him better than anyone. I'm with him all the time. He's not interested in relationships. I'm not sure if he's really capable of having one. I know it, and I still... Isn't that ridiculous? It's like I've got a bad schoolboy crush."

"Oh, tell me about crushes. They're the worst, aren't they?" Rudy stood up and walked into the kitchen. "And the best! _And the worst!"_ He got two beers out.

John laughed. "Yes they are."

Rudy came back by the sofa and handed one of the beers to John. "You just keep coming to me. Whenever you need to."

*

The next afternoon, Sherlock and John returned to 221B after visiting their client to wrap up a whirlwind case. They carried two overflowing bags of—

"What are those fuzzy things? Kiwi fruit?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Goodness!"

"She's got a brother somewhere who grows them, apparently," John said, setting his bag next to Sherlock's on Mrs. Hudson's table. "She was so overjoyed at the resolution of the case that she gave us these on top of the fee."

Sherlock snooped in Mrs. Hudson's refrigerator. "John stopped me chucking them into the first receptacle we passed."

"That was a _pram_ , Sherlock! And the mother was right next to it!" John said.

" _Nanny_ , actually."

"Well I'll just... figure out something to do with all of these," Mrs. Hudson said. "Oh dear, what do you do with kiwi fruit anyway? You can't bake them into a pie, can you?"

"I have no idea," John said, shaking his head and laughing.

*

"John," Sherlock said from the sofa, where he was sprawled with the laptop wedged between his hip and a cushion, and a mountain of books and papers within easy reach on the floor.

John, on his way to Rudy's, paused and turned to face Sherlock.

"I completed several experiments today."

"Oh. Excellent. Good for you," John said, deadpan.

Sherlock sighed. "Some of them took quite some time, but I've seen them through and analyzed my results. Some of the data I will file away for future usage, and some I will apply to other experiments. That is the purpose of conducting an experiment — to gather data and put it to use. I do not needlessly repeat trials once the results are clear. Experiments should not be done for the experiment's sake alone, but for the _results._ "

"You're saying you're not making all these messes just for fun?" John asked, gesturing around the room.

"No. For the result."

John quirked an eyebrow.

"I didn't say I don't enjoy conducting experiments." Sherlock sat up suddenly and looked John in the eye. "But I don't let myself lose sight of the purpose of them."

"Yes, well, I'm heading out. See you later," John said. Feeling uncomfortable, he left the flat, trying to ignore the tingling feeling on the back of his neck. It wasn't _actually_ possible to feel someone staring at you, after all.

*

Rudy's front door was ajar. John stopped, thinking about burglars, and considered what to do for a moment, then set down the take-out and DVD he'd stopped to pick up (and the foil-covered kiwi pie thingy that Mrs. Hudson had thrust into his hands as he'd left, as if he were going to primary school without his lunch). With his hands free, he pressed the door open, stretching out with every sense for any sign of danger.

Nothing seemed to be amiss, at first glance. Then a figure stepped out of the toilet. John had a half-second thrill of _Rudy's wearing the coat again_ , before —

"I'm afraid Rudy will be absent tonight."

 _Sherlock_. John froze, staring, and was struck with a giddy sensation and a surge of adrenaline.

"And every night from now on, in fact. He will not return. It is unlikely you will ever see him again."

John whispered, "Jesus Christ. _Jesus Christ_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock stared back, steely, evaluating.

John fought an impulse to flee — maybe if he left quickly enough, this wouldn't happen. Maybe if he went into the hall, shut the door, took ten deep breaths, and came back in, he'd find that this hadn't happened and that Rudy was here and everything was normal. No, that was _ridiculous_. All of this was ridiculous. "Why are you here? What are you doing here?"

"Ah. You have, in fact, just confirmed my suspicions that your interest is not specifically in Rudy. If you had been coming here because you cared for him, you would have responded by asking me what had happened to him. You would have been concerned for his well-being." Sherlock was doing the technique (hands in his pockets, standing very still, and speaking in a monotone) he used to get people — criminals, usually — to confess. Using it on him, on _John_! "You immediately reacted to my presence instead."

"Because you just fucking walked in here like you fucking own the place!" John sucked in air, his nostrils flaring, trying to control his emotions. "Fine. I do care about Rudy, as it happens. Where is he?"

"Rudy — horrible name, Rudyard, what were his parents thinking? — has gone to New York. He received notice that he had been accepted to one of the top drama schools there on full scholarship, only there had been some computer error and they were sorry he hadn't been notified sooner, and he had to make a rush of it to get there in time for the start of term. Which is tomorrow morning, in fact." Sherlock took a few steps, overly-casually, to the window. "He'll get his flat and his things sorted out soon, and settle in happily enough. Quite a lucky break for him — a chance to start a new life."

John grit his teeth. No doubt Mycroft had fixed that up. "And you, then? What are you doing here?"

Sherlock turned away from the window. "Talking to you."

"Why, Sherlock, why?! Dear God, can't I have any privacy?"

"Not in this matter."

"Why not? What does this," John gestured around the room, "have to do with you? What could it possibly have to do with you?"

" _What indeed_ ," Sherlock said, enunciating each syllable carefully.

"What does that mean?"

"I _have_ seen his picture, John."

"Oh no. No, no — don't act like you've got this all figured out—"

"How was he, this charismatic Rudy? Dear Rudy? Was he a good actor? Did you keep the lights low, maybe squint your eyes to enhance the illusion? Have him wear certain clothes, say certain things —"

"Why can't you just fucking stop all of this, Sherlock, like a decent human being, just look the other way! For once!" John was losing his cool. Usually, he hated that, but it felt _nice_ just now.

"Because you've been damnably thick! Continuing with all of this as if it were a secret, as if you weren't wasting your time repeating an experiment over and over when you already knew that your hypothesis would not be disproved by it —"

"Experiment?!" John repeated.

"You've completed sufficient trials. You've got consistent results. Your findings are sound. Thus, the experiment is over, and it's time to move on. Use the data. Act on it. Take it and apply it to another experiment. Take the next logical step, John."

John just stared at Sherlock, breathing hard.

Sherlock stared back. "Take the next logical step," he repeated.

"No matter what you think," John said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "No matter how you've justified this, no matter how badly you've _failed to understand how other humans function_ — you had no right. Absolutely no right to do any of this."

"You weren't serious about Rudy."

John threw his hands up. "Maybe not! But I liked him, and we were having a good time, and ending it wasn't your decision to make!"

"I've given you both what you wanted!"

"I don't want this!" John shouted, pointing at Sherlock. "I don't want you doing this to me! I don't want you barging in like this, messing about in my life!"

Sherlock slumped a little, as if deflated. Doubt flickered, if only for a split second, in his eyes. He lowered and softened his voice. "John, perhaps you've misunderstood my purpose. Perhaps I have not made myself clear to you. I have thought this over for weeks and I have decided something." He straightened up slightly, his arms stiff at his sides, his hands jittery. "I am _willing_."

"Willing?" John asked.

"Yes, willing."

"To do what exactly?"

"I am willing to participate in the next stage of your experiment."

"You are?" John asked, his mind and heart racing. Surely he had misunderstood Sherlock's intentions. He ran through the words again his mind. " _Willing_? You can't do better than 'willing?'"

"Better?"

"You can't muster a little more enthusiasm than just 'willing?'"

"I am prepared. Not averse. Available."

"You see," John scoffed. "You _see_? This is why I didn't try it with you. This is why it was only ever a fantasy. Because what I was looking for was more along the lines of, 'interested,' or —"

"Curious," Sherlock said, as if it were a treasure.

"Try 'enthusiastic,' or 'passionate' —"

"I said I'm curious. I'm _curious_ about doing these things with you, and curious about what the result —"

"I've seen you throw yourself down in the mud to look at plants with more zeal! I've seen you dig through garbage —!"

"Mushrooms are fungi, not plants, and they cleared my client as you'll recall. And that used dental floss gave us the DNA — "

"That's not the point! The point is I want you to show some kind of that enthusiasm for me! Not just being willing to take part, as if it were an experiment. As if — God — as if it were just about the act and the data and not about anything deeper than that."

"But that's what you've been coming here for," Sherlock said, with maddening logic.

"With a stranger. With someone I didn't —" John clutched his head in his hands. "Not with you."

"You would wish to have more than a purely physical relationship with me?"

John nodded, feeling trapped.

"I am willing to try that as well."

"I just — I just can't have this conversation right now. I can't stand in this room and — and continue this—" John walked out the door. Sherlock called after him once, but John kept going.


	5. Off the Table

Within a few days, John got an email from Rudy, in which Rudy apologized for leaving the way he had and talked about his new life with such clear enthusiasm that John started thinking that perhaps some real good _had_ come out of the whole fiasco after all. But that didn't excuse what Sherlock had done, or how he had done it.

_Sherlock..._

_Oh God, what to do about Sherlock..._

John wouldn't admit, even to himself, that he'd been intentionally avoiding Sherlock since that night at Rudy's flat. It was just that John was _busy_ and he'd realized that he didn't really need to use the sitting room or kitchen all that much. It was more practical not to, really. He could bypass them completely and just go straight from his bedroom to the front door.

And so several days had passed without John seeing Sherlock, although he occasionally heard his footsteps on the stairs, or the shower running, or that bloody violin, or any number of the uncanny sounds that Sherlock's experiments created.

He hated and loved it, because every tiny reminder of Sherlock filled John's head with the strangest images. A transparent, insubstantial, ghostlike Sherlock standing there saying, 'I'm willing.' John in bed with Sherlock, being eager and affectionate and giving, while Sherlock was detached and cold and bored. The high, thick walls around Sherlock fading, revealing a trembling, boyish Sherlock who offered John his affection in the form of some fragile, newborn creature held out in his cupped hands.

John just didn't know how to feel about the whole thing. He should say yes to Sherlock, shouldn't he? Give in to the thing he'd wanted for so long?

But really, logically, it should all come down to the fact that Sherlock had meddled, had drastically crossed a line into John's life and his privacy, and that was unacceptable and unhealthy. If John allowed it this time and even rewarded Sherlock by giving him what he wanted, Sherlock would surely do it again in other ways in the future. You just couldn't build a relationship on that kind of foundation.

But then (as another part of John's brain pointed out) what Sherlock had done had been a reaction to what _John_ had done, seeking out a man who looked like Sherlock to act out his sexual fantasies with. Hadn't that crossed a line as well? Hadn't that been inappropriate as well? And didn't that make them even?

These days away from Sherlock, with the silent tension between them, were eroding John's well-being. Day by day he felt it a little more, like consecutive nights of disturbed sleep or meal after meal of junk food. It got to you after a while.

And so John decided — as it had been the thought of sex between them that had complicated things, the possibility of sex needed to be taken off the table completely. Yes. That was it. Just tell Sherlock firmly that the whole thing had been a mistake and that they would be going back to how they were before. Unfortunately that would require _speaking_ to Sherlock, and John wasn't sure how to do that just yet.

Late one night after a shift at the surgery, John climbed the stairs. He'd told himself all day, _today is The Day For The Talk_ , but the doors to the kitchen and sitting room were shut and the lights were off. He was both disappointed and relieved as he turned on the landing and started up to his bedroom.

He heard a door open behind him and a light came on. John turned. Sherlock was standing in the door to the sitting room, backlit by a soft light.

"I'll forget it all," Sherlock said, as though they were already in mid-conversation.

It was so abrupt that John wondered for a moment if Sherlock were actually talking to someone else, someone inside the flat. But no, this was just how Sherlock communicated — why waste time with greetings or small talk? Sherlock met John's eyes. "Say the word, and I'll delete it all completely."

John let out a breath, as if his lungs had collapsed suddenly under the influence of some outside force. "Is that what you want?"

"If doing so will allow you to function normally around me again, yes. My work is suffering. I'm suffering. I need you back," Sherlock said.

John walked back down slowly, until he was only a few steps above Sherlock. Then he sat down. "I've been thinking it'd be better if we just put the whole thing behind us. Took it all... any possibility of _anything_... off the table, you know."

Sherlock's eyes danced over John quickly, taking in details, searching for meaning. "Then we will agree to consider any offers to be permanently retracted, and to forget the relevant memories."

"Well... I can't do what you do and just delete all the memories. I'll still remember. But I can do my best to ignore them and get us back to normal."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and dropped his gaze. "Yes. I want that."

John nodded, soberly.

"But first, for the record, you were wrong about one thing."

John smirked. Being corrected by Sherlock? It was like they were back to normal already. "Oi. Don't push your luck right now."

"It's important. You seem to believe that I am incapable of being selfless or attentive to another person's needs, when I have in fact been making attempts to do so for weeks now and you have apparently overlooked them."

John rubbed his eyes. "Have you really? For weeks now? What _valiant_ attempts were these, exactly, and how did I miss them?"

"For example, I let you wait at the top while I climbed into that well to look for the missing severed leg."

John almost smiled. Almost. "Yes. You did. Although at the time I thought you were just too excited about it to be arsed with waiting for me."

"I have made more obvious gestures of a romantic nature as well," Sherlock said. "The scented candles... gazing into each other's eyes..."

John scoffed.

"Offering to relieve your pent up sexual tension—" Sherlock continued.

"'Pent up sexual tension?' When did you — I think I would have _noticed_ if you — wait, you can't mean that ridiculous blue balls experiment!?"

"Yes, of course."

John made a few noises that may have been the beginnings of various replies. Then he gave up and shut his mouth and shook his head.

"You seem confused, John. I had suspected that once we'd reached the end of the allotted time, you would need relief. Which I would provide."

"Sherlock," John groaned. It was a bit like like facing a child who had dug up your entire garden in search of a pretty stone, which they then presented to you as if it were a great treasure. "Oh and the candles, the bloody candles."

"You do enjoy peaches," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, eating them! Once in a while! Not reeking of a synthetic version of them for weeks — to the point that my patients at the surgery comment on the smell!"

"You didn't appreciate my efforts."

"Sherlock — in hindsight, in some twisted way, I do. You were thinking of me and trying and _failing_ spectacularly in your own unique way, and —" John stood up restlessly. He was getting worked up, and didn't want to argue with Sherlock, not now when they were trying to patch things up. "Look, let's just go back to being friends, yes? We were good as friends. Let's forget all this."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment — _God, no one else could give him that look_ — before saying, "Yes."

"Back to normal in the morning then, right? Goodnight, Sherlock," John said, starting up the stairs again.

"Goodnight," Sherlock said, sounding slightly lost.

John didn't turn back. He'd feel less guilty tomorrow, wouldn't he? Less conflicted? They'd be back to normal. They'd work on cases. John would chide Sherlock for laughing at crime scenes, even while he himself couldn't stop his laughter. They'd sift through evidence and clues, just waiting for the next danger, the next insane thing they'd do in order to reach that thrilling high when Sherlock cracked the case and...

John shut his eyes, glad Sherlock couldn't see his face. He'd forget — just _forget_ — ever thinking about Sherlock's body writhing under his, or wondering if Sherlock's Cupid's bow felt as dramatic as it looked, or what it would be like to have his own body as the focus of Sherlock's intense concentration. He'd watch the looks on the police officers' faces as Sherlock crawled all over a crime scene, feeling and smelling and tasting and barking out insane-sounding deductions, but he'd never be able to think, 'he's mine — _he's mine_ — you all think he's just some amazing mad bastard — but he's _my_ amazing mad bastard —'

John reached his room. He went in and shut the door behind him, just as the door to the sitting room shut behind Sherlock.


	6. Mutual Torso Holding

'Normal' was what John had asked for, and 'normal' was what woke him the next morning.

And in this case, normal was being woken by a series of texts from Sherlock, who was banging around downstairs and apparently couldn't be bothered to take thirty seconds to come upstairs and knock on John's door.

Bleary-eyed, John picked up his phone.

_-Summoned by Lestrade._  
 _-Missing man, signs of a struggle in his house._  
 _-Know you're awake. Heard the bedsprings._  
 _-Hoover repairman, single, 48, obese but losing weight to improve health after minor heart attack._  
 _-Need to go. Are you up?_  
 _-GET_  
 _-UP_  
 _-JOHN_

"John!" Sherlock shouted up the stairs as John read the last of the texts.

_-Down in 2 min_

John sent his text and heard Sherlock go back to rushing around to get ready. "Christ, it's still dark out," he muttered to himself, sliding out of bed.

His phone chimed again. John looked at it, one arm in his jumper and one still out. A photo of blood spatter on a wall.

Yes, they were back to normal. So very, very normal.

*

Lestrade led them into the sitting room of the missing man's house. John thought that 'signs of a struggle' had been putting it very mildly. He couldn't see anything that _wasn't_ a sign of a struggle. Everything that could be ripped, broken, scattered or toppled had been. And where there wasn't debris, there were bloodstains.

It wasn't looking too good for Mr. Hoover-repairman. 

The police were mostly keeping to the perimeter of the room, stepping carefully around things on the floor and taking photos. They stopped what they were doing and looked at Sherlock as he dived right into the mess with a, "Nobody touch anything! Anything here could be vital — _anything_. It must all be preserved." One officer actually nudged another and pointed, and a few more appeared out of another room to stand in the hallway and watch. This kind of thing happened more and more these days, and John always felt a little thrill and swell of pride from it. People often treated Sherlock like some rare, exotic, bizarre, intimidating creature that was best watched at a safe distance. And John liked knowing that he, himself, was something just as rare as Sherlock — someone that Sherlock had allowed to get close. Someone that Sherlock loved...

Sherlock shot a look at John then, and John realized he was just standing and gawping with the rest even though he had a job to do as well. Embarrassed that he'd been caught staring at Sherlock — they were supposed to be back to normal today, after all! — John looked closer at a bloodstain on the carpet, trying to ignore Sherlock crawling through the room.

Sherlock naturally appeared strange, of course, but how must the pair of them look to outsiders? What must people think of John for putting up with Sherlock — living with him even? No wonder people thought they were a couple. People just couldn't understand what he and Sherlock had, so of course they'd assume they were sleeping together—

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked, sharply.

John looked up. Sherlock, contorted on the floor like he was playing a solo game of Twister, was glaring at John.

John answered hastily. "There's a bloodstain here, but the edges are smeared in a funny way. I'm not sure what would have caused that." That was what John normally did. He had two basic functions at crime scenes — one was to bounce questions back and forth with Sherlock (even if John himself didn't follow them) and the other was to point out things to Sherlock. Sherlock noticed everything, of course, but sometimes John saw meanings in things that Sherlock didn't, as John had more first-hand experience with violent injuries, not to mention more experience with _being an average bloke_ than Sherlock did.

"No! Leave it. Just stay back and don't touch anything."

John sighed. "Yes, alright, fine." He stood up and moved back against the wall, assuming a position similar to Lestrade's and watched Sherlock resume poking his fingers into the dent in the carpet where the table leg used to rest. He had no idea what Sherlock was snapping at him for, although if they were aiming for normal, then he had to expect Sherlock being shirty and rude from time to time. This was why someone like Rudy had been good for John — someone dependable and calm, someone with even moods. He had been fun, he had been pleasant, even if he hadn't exactly been exciting. Well, it had been exciting when he'd worn the coat —

"John!" Sherlock snapped, jumping up, his magnifier clenched in his fist.

"What?"

"What do you mean 'what?' You're distracting. I need you to stop it. Just stop it!"

"Stop _what_ exactly? Blinking? Breathing?"

"Stop staring! Stop thinking about me!" Sherlock gestured grandly with one arm — and the heel of his shoe came down hard on something that crunched. One of the officers actually gasped. Lestrade made a little sound of disbelief and took a half step toward Sherlock. Very slowly, as if he were trying not to frighten a flock of wild birds, Sherlock looked down at the evidence that he'd just destroyed. It looked like it had been some kind of glass knickknack with dried blood all over it. His nostrils flared as he looked up at John with _such_ a look of fury in his eyes.

"You're ruining everything, John! Everything I worked so hard for these last few weeks! And now this — now I can't even work with you here!"

"I'm just standing here, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's face was ugly with anger. "You're not! You're still mulling it all over and having second thoughts and wishing it had gone differently, wondering where it all went wrong. You're practically shouting your regrets at me, John. And after you said we'd go back to normal — do you realize how hard this is for me?"

"This is part of going back to normal. Yes, things are awkward at first, but you just ignore all of that and act like things are fine, until one day, they really are. That's how normal human people handle these situations! And can we please _not_ have this conversations in front of the entire fucking Scotland Yard?"

"Then you'll have to get out of this room. Go home." Sherlock pointed toward the front door. "Because if you're here thinking about me and being awkward, you're just a distraction to me. So get out and leave me to my work! That's all I have left —"

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Listen, Sherlock, John, why don't you two —"

"Oh do shut up, Lestrade!" Sherlock snapped.

There were a few seconds of silence. Lestrade's face... it was subtle, a tensing of muscle, a slight tilt of the head, a focusing of the eyes... and John appreciated for the first time what it would be like to be a criminal facing Lestrade down. Lestrade made his way across the floor and led Sherlock back over to John.

Lestrade looked at them in turn. "Right. Here's what's going to happen. The pair of you are going to leave this room right now. If you can't stop this squabbling, calm down, regroup, and come back with your full attention on this investigation in two minutes, you will be escorted home and not invited back. Do you understand?"

As Lestrade spoke, a bulky officer loomed nearer.

"Yeah," John said.

"Lestrade —" Sherlock began.

John grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and pulled him into the kitchen (which showed 'signs of a struggle' just like the rest of the house), only to come face to face with several more uniformed officers. Having expected the kitchen to be a private place to talk, John pulled up short. Sherlock, however, suddenly pulled John sideways and into a pantry. With his unerring, uncanny sense, Sherlock found the light switch and flipped it on as he stepped in and closed the door behind him.

"In here? Really?" John asked. His back was against the shelves, Sherlock's was to the door, and they were standing close enough that Sherlock's coat was brushing John's jacket. There wasn't much two people could do in a space this size. Two possibilities came to mind: talking and snogging. Great. Half of Scotland Yard already thought they were having a lovers' quarrel — no doubt they'd imagine how they were using this space to make up afterwards.

"What was all that about out there, Sherlock? Why didn't you delete it?" John asked, exasperated.

"I may have oversimplified the process when I said I could. It's not quite like pressing a button and waking up with a blank spot in my mind the next morning. Reminders hinder the process. I didn't want it to come to this, but for a full deletion we'll need to be separated entirely for six to eight weeks."

"Sherlock!"

"Six to eight weeks John —"

"I'm not doing that!"

"John, you saw that room out there. You know what a room like that is to me — and I can't even enjoy it. Do you understand? There's a missing — possibly dead — man, a roomful of evidence, and some colossal foolishness on someone's part that caused all of it to happen, and I can't even focus on it. Let alone enjoy it!"

John took a few deep breaths trying to clear his frustration. He stared at some tins on the shelves without really seeing them. Ok. He had to do something. He fell back on the old tried and true Watson plan of action — getting through one crisis at a time.

"Alright, Sherlock, look. Let's just get through this. Let's get back out there before Lestrade decides to send us packing for good. We'll be calm and professional. We'll focus on the case. I'll step out of the room if you need me to, but I am not leaving. Then later, after we get home, we'll figure all of this out, right? We'll work on _normal_ then."

Sherlock just stared at John, so John took that as agreement. John was eager to get out of this pantry, sure that the officers thought they were making up after their lovers' row with a snog and a handie. He edged toward the door, somehow getting Sherlock to shift enough to get by and stopping several bags of pasta from falling to the floor. He flicked out the light and pushed the door open a few inches — and then there was a rustle of fabric and a low "John" and Sherlock's arms were around him.

It was so unexpected, so un-Sherlock-like that John took several heartbeats trying to confirm that, yes, Sherlock was pressed up against his back and, yes, Sherlock's arms were forming a solid band around John's chest.

"Is this... are you attempting some Baritsu move?" John asked.

"No."

"Trying to suffocate me?"

"No."

"Er... testing a theory about how Mr. Hoover-repairman was abducted?"

"He wasn't. And no."

John pulled the door shut again, hoping no one had seen anything. And —

Yielded.

Just for a moment, there in the dark and the privacy, John let things be.

The tension went out of his body. The warmth from Sherlock — the contours of his body — the breath on John's ear — John shut his eyes and surrendered and drank it all in. They stood together in silence, indulging in the feelings for longer than could be considered casual or friendly or — _normal_.

Really, it was what they _didn't do_ in that moment that clarified their feelings. The _lack_ of reactions, or questions, or hasty explanations.

John wasn't sure how much time passed before he softly asked, "Sherlock?"

At that exact moment, Sherlock also began speaking. "I've been thinking for some time now how useful this position could be for us, John. For example, I can ascertain your mood from the rigidity of your muscles, make deductions about your day based on your scent. You wouldn't have to tell me about your day when you got home. We could even do this without interrupting any other conversation we were having. It is very economical in that way. Conservation of energy."

"Sherlock —"

"It has its applications in my line of work as well — from this position, I could speak quietly to you with little chance of being overheard, which would often be useful at crime scenes or when interviewing suspects. However, I would advise against doing it while holding any hot or corrosive liquids. Additionally, it is probably ill-advised to do so when standing on the stairs, despite the way in which it would even out our heights, due to the statistical increase of the danger of falls —"

"Sherlock —"

"It also occurs to me, John, that if you were to turn around and so that we were front to front, and if you put your arms around me as well, it would be even better, as we could simultaneously get data from each other. If that would be agreeable to you."

"Oh Sherlock." John turned. Sherlock relaxed his hold slightly until John settled against his front with his arms hooked under Sherlock's arms and hands on his shoulders. John sighed, his temple against Sherlock's ear. "It's ok to just say that you want to do this. It's ok to just _like_ it. I like it too."

Sherlock bowed his head and pressed his jaw more firmly against John cheek in reply. He gave no sign of letting go.

"You really made a scene out there, Sherlock. I've never seen you like that."

"Mm."

"You can't just... have meltdowns like that when you don't get what you want. You can't just arrange surprise overseas scholarships to anyone I get close to." John smiled at the absurdity of it all. He felt a spasm of half-hearted laughter go through Sherlock. "This is more important to you than you let on last night, isn't it?" John raised his hand and brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. All of this was easier in the dark.

"John, I wonder if you understood the weight of my words when I said that I was _willing_. You seemed to take objection to the phrase, but I would suggest that such words coming from me carry a greater meaning than they would from the frivolous, unfettered, English-abusing masses that you frequently interact with."

"I can't argue with that. No one could accuse you of behaving like most people."

Sherlock smirked. John felt it against his cheek.

"When I say I am willing to do a thing, it is neither passive nor indecisive. It is no trivial matter. Do you think, knowing me as you do, that I would be _willing_ to do something unless I had a genuine interest in it?"

John said, "I didn't think of it that way."

"Anyhow, I'm physically attractive enough to go out and easily pull someone if all I wanted was casual sex."

"Yes you are. Tosser."

"But I don't. I haven't. I've only ever been interested in you. Not carrying on with some stranger."

John sighed. "Like I did. With Rudy. It was just... well, it was safe. Uncomplicated. I wasn't sure about _anything_ at first. How I felt. I could have tried to figure things out with you... but if it all went horribly, embarrassingly pear-shaped with Rudy, I could just walk away and never see him again. And he — he was good. It was good. But he wasn't you, in a million little ways, and I noticed all of them. I missed all of them."

"You didn't have to. I'm here, John," Sherlock said into John's ear.

John shut his eyes, lightheaded with emotion. _It's inevitable. It's going to happen. We're going to happen, and we both know it. We'd need an ocean between us — it'd take the death of one of us to prevent it. And we thought we could decide it away. We thought we could forget it._

Sherlock's arms tightened around John. "Hmm. This is comfortable and informative, as I knew it would be."

"Just don't try it out on suspects and strangers. And I hate to break it to you, but you didn't invent this. It's called hugging, Sherlock."

"Hugging?" There was scorn in Sherlock's voice. "This is not hugging. Hugging is what children do to grubby teddy bears. Hugging is what Grandmothers do after you unwrap the socks and pants they gave you for Christmas. Hugging..." Sherlock trailed off at John's laughter. "This is far superior to common hugging."

"What would you call it, then?"

"Mmm. Mutual torso holding."

John laughed, hiding his face in Sherlock's shoulder. Even Sherlock chuckled.

From the other side of the door came some intentionally loud footsteps. Someone cleared his throat pointedly. Lestrade.

"Oh, dammit, we're still on a case. At least, unless he's chucking us out," John muttered, finally separating from Sherlock. He flicked on the light, really hoping that it had escaped Lestrade's notice that they'd been in here in the dark. John and Sherlock both blinked in the light, looking at each other closely, as if they might have each metamorphosed in the last few minutes. They hadn't — at least not outwardly. John reached out to straighten Sherlock's scarf. "Right. Think you can go out there and concentrate?"

"Yes. How well depends on if I'll have more mutual torso holding to look forward to after we get home."

"Yeah... let's. We're... we're going to give things a go, aren't we?" John asked, speaking lightly despite how important he knew it was to both of them. "I mean... it's really always been bound to happen."

Sherlock smiled him, one of those smiles that scrunched up his skin in fascinating ways and seemed to change him into a whole new person. Then all at once a new expression of wonderment came across his face. John puzzled at it briefly before Sherlock burst out — "Oh! _Bound to happen!_ Of course! You're brilliant, John, that's it!" and he was out the door and brushing past Lestrade, rattling off some theory about the missing man.

Trying to look casual, John stepped out after him. Lestrade eyed him.

"Got things worked out?"

"Yup. All patched up." John nodded, trying to hide his mad smile.

In the sitting room, Sherlock was already going through a whirlwind of deductions, while pointing out different aspects of the evidence in the room. John noted smugly that his smeary bloodstain was important after all.

"This is unbelievable. Is he right?" One of the wide-eyed police officers asked Lestrade.

"Well," Lestrade said with a sigh, "his methods are uncouth, his leaps of logic are usually Greek to the rest of us, and he has quite a flair for the dramatic but — in the end? — Yeah, he's always right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic started as 1000 words that I wrote to ~~cheat~~ pad out my word count at the end of NaNoWriMo in 2012. That version had John going to a prostitute, only to discover Sherlock waiting for him instead. Mycroft — interfering and nosy as usual — had set the whole thing up. The story grew in the rewrite and became lighter in tone — for the better, I think. Thank you for the kudos, comments, subscriptions and recs — they were very inspirational.


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